Two Swords, Eons, A Dance
by biscutpoo
Summary: If the King of the Old Ones had one enemy, it took the form of a fifteen-year-old boy.


_Two Swords, Eons, A Dance_

If the King of the Old Ones had one enemy, it took the form of a 15-year-old boy who called himself Matt. But of course, that was not his original name nor was it the name that others came to know him as, it was just a name he adopted. In the histories of humans he had many names and many forms, blurred as his memory was in their minds. But then again, the King of the Old Ones was much the same. To the earliest peoples he was known as Chaos, in later renditions they called him Lucifer or Satan, but these were just watered down replicas. True evil could not be quantized so easily.

It frustrated the King of the Old Ones to no end that his nemesis was just a child, a mortal child at that. The idea that this same child could have led him into defeat drove the King mad with rage. That this same child who had banished him from earth could then return and wound him, _him,_ the great King of all Evil. It was an unthinkable offense and the boy deserved the worst form of punishment.

But nevertheless, somewhere in his dark pit of a heart, the King acknowledged this boy alone of all the children, formidable enough to be his foe.

And in the minds of mortals, they were just that: enemies, white and black, good and evil, right and wrong. For an eternity afterwards, humanity would write of their clash, which had started (physically) in a field in what would one day become a small village in the English countryside but which had begun (mentally) much earlier with the reading of a single book and the awakening of god-like power by a young boy at the tender age of eight.

They worshipped him, the other Gatekeepers too, as gods. The boy called Inti became the Incan god of the sun, the girl Scar, the Chinese goddess of the sea, the twins, Sapling and Flint, twin gods from the Iroquois creation myth. But the boy who called himself Matt they crucified and called a sacrifice to save all humanity from sin.

It seemed fitting then that when he should finally have the boy in his hands, Chaos might pin him to a wooden cross.

Not without torturing him extensively first, of course.

That was how the King of the Old Ones spent his ten years in Oblivion awaiting the return of the Gatekeepers. He sat upon his throne, watched his servants suck the very life from this world drop by drop, and brooded over what he would do to the boy when he finally got his hands on him.

So when his servants finally dragged the child, barely conscious, to the base of his throne and tossed the wretched figure at his feet, the King of the Old Ones felt for the first time in many millennia a true emotion: joy.

It was a twisted, perverted, kind of happiness, drawn from the anticipation of great suffering, but it was the closest thing to happiness the Old Ones ever came. And it would bring much pleasure indeed for the King to see the fear at last in Matt's eyes, see the dawning realization of the very futility of his struggle, see the light of life dim and glaze over. To see the boy who dared to once stand tall before him, crumble and beg for mercy.

They took him to a massive hall in the interior of the fortress where a large crowd of Chaos's followers gathered to witness the event and tied the boy to a wooden post, his arms outstretched and pinned on either side of him.

They started with a knife, cutting layer after layer of clothing off the boy's body and then layer after layer of skin. They shaved his hair, letting it fall like rain around him. One of the humans, the man that was the head of the Nightrise Corporation, sent electric currents through the boy's body until he writhed in place on the post. Then they beat him until he couldn't stand and when his head began to droop too low they fastened his neck in place with barbed wire.

Yet still the boy made not a sound. He'd writhed and at times he'd cried out, but he didn't swear or curse Chaos in any way. There was still defiance in his eyes and hatred, but no despair. The boy looked, for all intents and purposes, the same as he had the precious few moments before he'd stabbed the King of the Old Ones with his sword ten thousand years ago, he looked as if he'd won.

This annoyed Chaos so much that he'd even taken the boy in his arms, delighted when the child gasped at his touch and trembled involuntarily in his grasp, right before he shook the child so violently something definitely snapped within the boy's body, a couple of ribs perhaps?

But even then, that strange look in Matt's eyes didn't disappear. And when Chaos himself took up a sword and cut it agonizingly slowly into his victim's chest, drawing it with deliberate malice above the boy's beating heart, the first of the Gatekeepers even had the audacity to smile.

Hours more of this and the wire no longer held the boy's head up all the way. His eyes had glazed over many blows earlier and he seemed to be floating not quite in the hall anymore but in some other place only he could see.

It was amusing to see his nemesis now. Ten thousand years ago, they had stood on either side of a small clearing while war waged around them. At that time, this boy had been strong, had radiated power and authority. Yet what was he now?

Reduced to a bleeding, limp, form crucified in a cold hall while legions of his enemies jeered and called for his blood. A journey that had begun eons ago with two swords in a bloodied field was coming to a close and Chaos had won.

For ages he had searched for this child and always Matt had slipped through his fingers like water. Yet here he was! So weak, he couldn't support his own weight let alone escape. It was disappointing how easily Matt had fallen, perhaps Chaos had expected too much of the boy? After all, he was only a child.

And while the boy hung, weak and seemingly defeated, alone in the enemy's stronghold, Chaos sent for the boy's friend: a human journalist who called himself Richard. They would kill the journalist in front of the boy and Chaos hoped he would finally see that strange look in Matt's eyes fade, would finally see the terror and despair and hopelessness.

And the King was right in some sense. When Matt saw the journalist, he did lose some of the calm façade he'd held throughout his agonizing torture. Something cracked deep inside the boy and Chaos saw pleading at last in Matt's eyes. But this was directed not at him but at the journalist. The lips that mouthed silent words were directed not at him but at the human man, shaken and horrified, in the center of the hall.

Chaos in all his strength had more human flaws than humans. That was something the King of the Old Ones never did realize and never would. But it was something Matt knew all along: the King of the Old Ones was blind.

He did not understand human love, did not understand human emotion, not really. He could manipulate other things about humanity: greed, lust, fear and he thought that this was all he needed to know about the creatures he respected as much as ants. He didn't understand human will and determination, human adherence to good. And that was why he didn't comprehend that Matt would sacrifice himself, it was why Chaos had not foreseen what would happen.

He had not foreseen that the journalist would pull out a golden knife, take three steps towards Matt hanging limply in his bonds, and plunge the dagger into the child's heart, killing him instantly.

He had not foreseen that outside, the boy named Scott, who he had believed to be on his side, would take the handles of the twenty-fifth door and give his life for his brother.

When he realized the "trick" (for it was always a trick in Chaos's mind, there could be no other way he might be defeated) it was already too late. The King of the Old Ones roared with fury as he saw the first of the Gatekeepers, that strange knowing look in his eyes slip from his grasp like water once more.

The Five had come together again.

Outside the fortress, Matt from the past, the one who had stood so defiantly before him sword brimming with power in that field ten thousand years ago, was riding towards the others with the boy called Flint. The one called Jamie had acquired his sword. The one called Pedro had snatched up a blade; the one called Scarlett had summoned her winds.

And one by one they plunged their swords into his being.

Matt first, always that boy first.

They formed the circle and banished the King from this realm.

.

.

.

If the King of the Old Ones had one enemy, it took the form of a fifteen-year-old boy. Theirs was a never-ending dance, which began with two swords in a nameless field and would be written of in human literature for eons to come, forever battling across history, across human memory.

And at the end of the day, the fallen one was never Matt.


End file.
